


I think we'll get it right someday (all we need is time)

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [142]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Alternate Universe - World War I, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Crusades, Emotional Infidelity, Endearments, Established Relationship, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nicknames, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Possessive Sex, Regency Romance, Reincarnation, Romantic Soulmates, Unconditional Love, Victorian Attitudes, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 11:24:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15948368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: “You presume,” Gaius answers calmly, “that we progress through time in a linear fashion. I am merely proposing that, in fact, we do not.”Or: Merlin and Arthur reincarnated – with a twist.





	I think we'll get it right someday (all we need is time)

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to arthur_pendragon for looking this over for me. Any and all remaining errors are my own :) 
> 
> Please see the end of the story for (spoilery) content notes.

 

1

 

**2015**

 

The picture on the mantelpiece is Merlin’s favourite, so that is the only one he keeps. The rest he packs away in a box in the attic, along with Arthur’s sweaters and his favourite jeans, tucking the whole lot out of sight beneath the old baby quilt that used to be his mother’s. The files on his laptop he stores in the cloud somewhere—accessible, but nowhere he could possibly stumble upon them unawares. Everything else he deletes, or destroys.

 

When Morgana comes to visit, he can see her eyes travel over the empty shelves and bookcases, all the places where Arthur’s smiling face used to be, but she doesn’t comment on the change in décor.

 

“How are you holding up?” she asks, leaning against the kitchen counter. She looks tired, the pallor of her flawless skin making her seem more delicate than she really is. “Are you coping?”

 

It’s the same thing she asks him every week, more or less, and as he does every week Merlin just shrugs in answer. He’s not sure what coping looks like anymore, but it’s probably not what he’s been doing. While she pours herself a glass of red wine, he asks casually, “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

 

Her face softens. “Oh, Merlin.”

 

He gives a short laugh. “Yeah,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I’m coping just fine.”

 

+

 

The thing is, when Merlin met Arthur, he’d really believed it would be forever. He remembers that day in every particular. How Arthur had been dressed in a slightly-too-tight navy t-shirt and old jeans, his blond hair tousled and bleached by the sun. How he’d smiled automatically when he caught sight of Merlin, like it was a reflex to be pleased to see him.

 

“You must be Merlin,” he’d said, holding out a hand in greeting. When Merlin shook it, sparks travelled up to his shoulder like tiny electric shocks. “I’m Arthur, Morgana’s younger brother. Don’t believe a word she’s said about me; I’m really not that bad.”

 

Merlin had raised his eyebrows. “That’s exactly what she told me you’d say,” he said, and Arthur threw back his head and laughed, then offered to fetch him a drink to convince him Morgana wasn’t right about everything. Merlin had accepted immediately. Whatever else he was, Arthur was mesmerising—although, to be fair, Morgana had warned him about that too.

 

It hadn’t been Merlin’s intention for things to progress much further, because he loved Morgana but he knew she’d kill him if he fucked things up with her little brother, and Merlin by that point had more experience with screwing up than he ever had in getting it right. But Arthur had a kind of magnetic pull about him, something that made it impossible to keep from touching him, from running his hands up smooth muscle and knotting his fingers in Arthur’s shirt when Arthur pushed him up against the wall.

 

“We should probably slow down,” Arthur murmured into Merlin’s neck, even as he bit hard kisses into the arch of Merlin’s throat. “Wouldn’t want you to think I’m—easy.”

 

“Heaven forbid,” Merlin agreed, and ground against him, trapping the shocked gasp Arthur made in the well of his mouth. “And after your sister said you were such a proper young man.”

 

“Don’t talk about my sister,” Arthur groaned, hoisting Merlin’s legs up around his waist and holding on tight; and that was the first time, pressed together in the upstairs hallway of Morgana’s flat, while below them the living room pulsed with the beat of music and raised voices, the bass mingling with the thud of Merlin’s heartbeat as he came. From there on out, it was as if they were drunk on each other, unable to stay apart for more than a day, an hour, a minute at a time.

 

They had been together two years when Arthur died.

 

 

2

 

 

**1913**

 

Merlin recognises Morgana first, this time. Standing at the mouth of the curved staircase and resplendent in an ivory tea gown, she becomes for a moment someone else: not the lady of the house, not his new master’s sister, but an ordinary woman in a scandalously short skirt and bodice, her hair rumpled and messy as she speaks into a square box held up close to her ear.

 

“Emrys?” she says, not in his mind but in reality. “You are Merlin Emrys, are you not?”

 

Merlin can only stare at her, blushing hot and then cold in the aftermath of his vision. A sense of urgency buzzes through him, but he cannot identify its source. The Lady Morgana Pendragon lets out a sigh and lays one slim hand on the railing.

 

“It’s really not so shocking of me, is it?” she asks, with a charmingly self-deprecating smile. “Father has no time for the domestic staff, and goodness knows my brother can’t tell a valet from a clotheshorse most of the time, but as you are Gaius’ godson I would feel remiss if one of the family didn’t welcome you properly to Camelot House.”

 

At last, Merlin manages to stutter his thanks. Let her think it’s the shock of seeing a lady below stairs that has stopped his tongue; it’s a better explanation than any he can think of right now. In his mind’s eye, Lady Morgana puts down the small box and turns towards him, her eyes red-rimmed and wild with grief. _He’ll get here as soon as he can,_ she says in his head, her voice distorted by time like a weight of water. _Don’t worry. I’m not going to leave you to go through this alone_.

 

+

 

His meeting with Arthur is the second most shocking thing to happen to Merlin in as many hours, but after his vision of Morgana it is easier to pretend that nothing is amiss.

 

“You must be Emrys,” the young lord says in bored tones. He flicks Merlin a glance that is familiar, though in this case not from any wrong-headed imaginings but because it is the same glance Merlin’s previous employer gave him: a ‘you are a servant and therefore beneath my notice’ glance, one that looks but doesn’t see.

 

“I am, my lord,” he says. Arthur’s head comes up, his startled eyes meeting Merlin’s in the mirror, and Merlin thinks, _he feels it too_ , before he catches himself and bows slightly, eyes cast down in the manner befitting his station. He can see Arthur’s small movement out of the corner of his eye—a brief tug at his cuff, like a nervous habit—and carefully does not think of unbuttoning that cuff as he will be required to do that evening, of laying his mouth against the smooth skin he knows that he will find there.

 

Arthur clears his throat. “Well, carry on then,” he says. “My dinner jacket needs pressing for tonight, my boots need polishing, and this room is a mess.” He waves a hand. “I assume you’ve been informed of your duties?”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

“Good.” He turns around fully then, flashing Merlin a devastating grin. “Then I have no doubt we’ll rub along together somehow. At any rate, you can’t be as incompetent as my last manservant was.”

 

“I should hope not, my lord,” Merlin says, returning the smile. Despite their brief acquaintance, the exchange has the quality of an inside joke, albeit one which neither of them quite understands. “You can be sure that I will do my best.”

 

Inside his head, a group of people huddle sobbing in the basement of an old building, while the very earth around them heaves and spasms. _Shall we die here, do you think?_ Arthur asks him, his mouth very close to Merlin’s ear. _When we’ve only just found one another again?_

 

 _I should hope not,_ Merlin whispers back. _Losing you once was bad luck; twice would look like sheer incompetence._

Merlin shudders, and Arthur’s footsteps falter as he leaves the room; but he does not look back.

 

 

 

3

  
 

**1845**

 

Merlin, in the nineteenth century, concludes that he must be losing his mind.

 

“Metal cages that fly? Carriages without horses?” Gaius raises that infamous eyebrow at him. “My boy, you ought to write fairytales; you certainly have the imagination for it.”

 

“No doubt there must be some scientific explanation,” Merlin says, for his years as a doctor have taught him that much. “It hardly seems credible to remember things that haven’t happened yet.”

 

“The human brain is a mystery we have yet to fathom,” Gaius tells him sagely. “And as for time, well. Perhaps that is not so straightforward either.”

 

He has a pipe in his mouth; leaning back in his armchair, he very much resembles the wise philosopher, his slippered feet propped up by the fire. The sight ought to be comforting, yet Merlin is not comforted. There are things he cannot tell Gaius, things he dares not even admit to himself about the visions he has seen. Most of them are only fragments—a shard of light from a high building, a smothering weight on his chest, a knife. But he also remembers Arthur’s mouth, the press of Arthur’s lips on his like they belong there, the way his hands had moved warm and sure beneath Merlin’s shirt and down to his most intimate places.

 

Merlin has met the man only once, and since then he has been plagued with impressions, each as nonsensical as the last. It is as if he had encountered Apollo in the street and been granted the gift of prophecy, but not the power to comprehend it. _For God’s sake, Merlin, why did you follow me here?_ the Arthur in his memory demands, his voice in tatters as he presses a square of cloth to Merlin’s bloody chest. _If you were intending to punish me you picked a hell of a way to do it_.

 

 _Not everything is about you, you prat_ , Merlin retorts, then coughs. _I enlisted for the same reason you did—because it was the right thing to do_.

 

Merlin can still taste the blood on his lips, hear the thunder of explosions in the distance. Yet it is the emotion of it that lingers, that desperate, frightened hope. And before that, somewhere even more distant still: _If you know so much about what’s going to happen, how can you not do something about it?_

 

If this is how Cassandra lived, then he considers it no wonder she went mad.

 

+

 

Arthur comes to dinner the following week on some pretext; to own the truth, Merlin doesn’t much care about the excuse. At first he isn’t sure how much Arthur remembers—indeed, it is possible this delusion is entirely one-sided—but the duke keeps looking at him, these small, trifling glances, until Merlin manages to catch his eye and feels the recognition burn between them, consuming all the oxygen in the room.

 

After dinner, the three of them retire to the study for drinks, and Arthur takes a seat on the divan beside Merlin, the warmth of his thigh a temptation that threatens to drive him to distraction.

 

“Will you be staying in Ealdor long?” Gaius inquires, and Arthur says that he will.

 

“Depending, of course, on the demands of business and the wishes of my family.” His eyes find Merlin’s again, silently questioning, and Merlin has no answer for him. He wishes for Arthur to leave almost as much as he wishes for him to remain, and he can find no excuse for either. “You must come and dine with us while I am here. My wife and I would be most happy to receive you.”

 

“That would be most kind,” Gaius says, and Merlin nods along, struck speechless. He cannot articulate why the thought of Arthur with a wife should be so wrong, and yet _—_ it is.

 

After the duke is gone, Gaius sits back in his chair and regards Merlin quizzically.

 

“And you say that you have known the man before, in a past life?"

 

“No, Gaius.” Merlin runs a helpless hand through his hair. “These were scenes from the _future_ that I imagined, not of the past. But such a thing is hardly possible.”

 

“You think so?”

 

“Come, Doctor. We are men of reason. You know such a thing is absurd.”

 

“You presume,” Gaius answers calmly, “that we progress through time in a linear fashion. I am merely proposing that, in fact, we do not.”

 

Merlin shakes his head. “If time is not a straight line, then what is it?”

 

“You’re the one who claims to have knowledge of the future, my boy. You tell me.”

 

 

 

4

 

 

**1940**

 

The dance-hall is unbearably crowded, a thick fugue of smoke hanging over the bodies of the patrons as they sway to the slow beat. Merlin watches them without seeing: half of his mind is here but the other half is distant, waiting for the sound of sirens to cut through the night. These days, he spends the majority of his life a little on edge. He thinks most of them do.

 

The second _he_ steps inside, however, there is a shift in the air, as if the crowd is caught on a collective indrawn breath. Merlin turns from the bar to look and finds himself staring across the close-packed dance floor into a pair of blue eyes the same colour as his own. The man is tall, almost of a height with Merlin himself, and when he takes off his cap and runs a self-conscious hand through his hair, the sense of recognition is overpowering.

 

“Who is that?” Merlin asks, nudging Will beside him at the bar. “The bloke who just came in.”

 

“I dunno, mate.” He squints. “Haven’t seen him around before. Looks like a toff to me.”

 

A _toff_ means anyone Will doesn’t like, but Merlin has to admit the man screams quality, with the kind of bearing that suggests old money overlaid by recent military training. His pilot’s uniform is so very starched and crisp it could stand on its own, yet for all his stiffness there is a vulnerability to him, something raw and human that calls to Merlin in spite of himself.

 

“I’m going to say hello,” Merlin decides, sliding off his stool, but Morgana on his other side catches at his wrist, holding it like she thinks he’s going to pull away.

 

“Don’t,” she says, unsmiling. “You can’t trust him.”

 

Merlin has learned the hard way not to doubt his sister’s hunches, for Morgana is almost never wrong. But this time her instincts are so much the opposite to his own that he can’t help laughing as he shakes his head. “Listen to you, big sister,” he says, taking her hand and squeezing it affectionately. “So protective. I am a grown-up, you know.”

 

“I’m serious, Merlin. Be careful. I’ve seen his type before.”

 

“Gorgeous?”

 

“Entitled,” she says, her eyes narrowed.

 

“I’ll be fine,” Merlin assures her, still smiling. “I’m only going to speak to him, not trust him with my life savings; what harm could he possibly do?”

 

“You’d be surprised,” Morgana says, but she lets him go.

 

The stranger sees Merlin coming before he gets halfway across the room, and Merlin watches as he extricates himself from the group he’s with and comes towards him, a little tentative but mostly purposeful. They stop in front of one another at the edge of the dance floor, and the man half smiles at him, holding up his cigarette case.

 

“I was about to head out to get some air,” he says, and it could be just a line but the look on his face says it’s anything but. “Would you care to join me?”

 

“All right,” Merlin agrees and follows him. The night is clear and cold. There’s a bomber’s moon out, the shadows crisp and sharp, and Merlin finds himself keeping a weather eye on the sky as well as the man beside him, a strange buzzing feeling spreading under his skin.

 

“I’m Arthur, by the way.”

 

“Merlin.”

 

They don’t shake hands. Arthur lights a cigarette but doesn’t smoke it, pinching out the butt a moment after it touches his lips and dropping it to the dirt, where he crushes it for good measure. A few moments later he repeats the same process; an internal struggle of some sort that Merlin doesn’t understand. After the third cigarette, he looks at Merlin, and smiles sheepishly when he catches him watching.

 

“I have the ridiculous notion that these things will kill me,” he confesses, tucking the packet away. “Yet I can’t seem to help myself.”

 

“We’ve all got to go sometime,” Merlin says, flippant, but the sudden thought of it has his heart clenching unpleasantly, the echo of his sister’s voice in his head: _are you coping?_ “Might as well die doing something you love.”

 

“That’s what I always say.” Arthur’s smile lights up the dark, the warm curl of his voice like gunsmoke. “You want to go somewhere? I can think of a few things I’d love to be doing if this were to be my last night on earth.”

 

Merlin hesitates. “Your friends won’t miss you?”

 

“No.” He tilts his head. “What about you—your girl-friend?”

 

“Sister,” Merlin corrects. “She’s fine. We came with a friend.”

 

Somehow, they are standing very close. Arthur’s eyes are fixed on his lips and Merlin licks them, appalled at himself for being so obvious and yet still confident, _knowing_ that Arthur won’t turn him down. When they kiss it tastes like ashes and burning, and Morgana was right—he _is_ entitled, taking Merlin’s mouth like it’s sovereign territory, like he’s conquering new ground and he can’t get enough. But then his hands are also gentle on Merlin’s face, and there’s a little hitch in his breath that Merlin knows impossibly well, and he remembers unbidden the image of Arthur in a loose white shirt, the collar open, saying _the carriage is waiting outside, love _—_ I have to go, but I promise I’ll be back before the month is out_, and what a wrench it will be to be parted from him.

 

He steps back with a soft gasp as the air raid siren wails, and he can see the same thought reflected in Arthur’s eyes.

 

“We win, right?” he asks, half laughing, discombobulated by the sudden certainty that this moment has already been and gone; that one day it won’t be any more than a memory. “The Battle of Britain?”

 

Arthur still looks stunned. “I think so.”

 

Above them, searchlights stab bright fingers into the darkness, and the whine of the siren drills like an insect into Merlin’s ears. Arthur’s hand closes over his wrist. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get below.”

 

 

 

5

 

 

**1191**

 

It is his decision to go and fight, and yet he has the temerity to call Merlin selfish for staying behind.

 

“And what do you think _you_ are, then,” Merlin demands, catching at the front of Arthur’s shirt to keep him close, “when you know what it does to me every time you go?”

 

“I’ll come back.” Arthur’s palm slides flat against the small of Merlin’s back, stilling him, his other hand tilting up the base of Merlin’s chin. “Even if I die, I’ll come back—you know I will. You can’t get rid of me like that.”

 

“Sometimes I _want_ to get rid of you,” Merlin says, then contradicts the statement at once by kissing him, hard and fierce on the lips. “You plague me. You follow me around like a ghost, dead a hundred times over, and still you won’t let me go.”

 

“That’s because you’re mine,” Arthur murmurs into his hair, trailing tiny kisses. “My sweet bird. My flightless phoenix.”

 

Arthur fucks him slowly that night, his hands, hot and possessive, leaving bruises on Merlin’s hips to match those sucked into his throat, the words embedded beneath his skin though Arthur never says them. Merlin does not hold back, as though sheer want might cause him to change his mind, and when Arthur holds him after he listens to the sound of their two hearts beating and tries not to think about any of it, tries not to remember how this stupid war will end.

 

 _Are you coping?_ a woman asks in his head, and Merlin wants to shout at her to be silent, not to speak of something she doesn’t understand. How can he cope without this? The world will tear itself apart and be remade, over and over, and he will always be alone at the end of it, waiting for Arthur to come back until he can’t anymore.

 

+

 

At the edge of the gangplank, Arthur wavers, reaching out to press Merlin’s hand with his for one last time. “If it is God’s will,” he says, and lets the thought trail off. Merlin looks into that steady blue gaze without blinking, memorising a face he knows far better than his own.

 

“God’s will?” he says softly, speaking low so that those boarding beside them will not hear. “God has nothing to do with this.”

 

“The Devil, then.” Arthur leaves him with a smile—always, always with a smile. “The Devil bring me back to you.”

 

 

 

6

 

 

**1795**

 

“Mr Emrys, may I introduce you to my friend, Mr Pendragon? His father was the late squire, you know, and he has just returned to live at Camelot Hall. Mr Emrys is a poet, Mr Pendragon, and quite a good one, or so I’m told.”

 

Those familiar blue eyes watch him steadily, and Merlin bows, the unexpected flutter of his pulse in his throat like a startled flock of birds.

 

“I’ve already had the pleasure,” Arthur says smoothly, taking Merlin’s hand in his. For one incomprehensible moment, Merlin thinks Arthur is about to kiss it the way he would a woman’s, and he draws back instinctively, uncertain how to react. Arthur’s gaze flickers; he doesn’t bow in response, but turns his head away.

 

“Well, I never,” Mrs Jeffries says, shocked, as Arthur stalks across the room to stare out the window. “I can’t imagine why he would be so rude.”

 

“I’m afraid Mr Pendragon’s cousin is married to my brother,” Merlin says, following Arthur with his eyes. “He has never forgiven me for the match.”

 

Mrs Jeffries makes a sound which in a less well-bred woman might have been a tut. “I see,” she says, her lips compressing into a disapproving line. “Still, there’s no call for bad manners. Your brother is a fine young gentleman, and a match for any girl; I shall have to tell him so.”

 

It’s strange, having the boot on the other foot. Usually Merlin is the one who does not conform to convention, while Arthur is the darling of the ton, a cut above the hoi polloi in charm and social graces. How the mighty have fallen; and yet, he finds no pleasure in it.

 

“I am sure he does not care,” he murmurs, turning away at last, but he wishes rather than believes it to be true.

 

+

 

Later, it is somehow no surprise to find Arthur waiting for him, tucked into the alcove by the front door to keep out of the rain. The light from the street-lamps gleams off the cobbles, catching like highlights in his hair, which is slightly damp.

 

“Did you walk?” he asks, as Merlin approaches. “It’s terrible weather.”

 

“I fail to see how my mode of transportation is any of your business,” Merlin says coolly. “You've made your opinion of me abundantly clear.”

 

“Merlin. I’m sorry.” Arthur turns his hat in his hands, more agitated than penitent. “Let me give you a ride home, at least. You’ll catch your death.”

 

He has no wish to prolong the encounter, but it is very late, and the weather so bad; reluctantly, Merlin acquiesces, waiting on the stoop in silence while his companion sends for the horses. The carriage is warm—spacious. Merlin settles himself in the farthest corner he can reach and tries to gather his composure, which shatters all over again when Arthur sits down beside him.

 

“I could not talk to you as I wished,” he says, his voice very low, “with so many people present, but now we are alone I have to ask you—”

 

“Your cousin is doing well,” Merlin interrupts, hoping to deflect him. “She sends her regards. My brother as well.”

 

“You know I was not asking about my cousin.” In the dim light, Arthur’s eyes gleam grey. “I know you have received my letters.”

 

“And did not answer them,” Merlin returns pointedly. “Surely that is an end to the subject.”

 

“Perhaps it ought to be,” Arthur admits. “But I cannot be silent. If you tell me that you remember nothing then I will, of course, believe you, but I can’t imagine you would be so cruel as to keep me in suspense if you know what I am speaking of.”

 

Merlin lets out a breath, leaning his head back. “I may have some idea,” he says finally. “I think—there may be something in the things you said. But I am not certain.”

 

“You think.” Arthur’s voice is flat. “ _Maybe_. That isn’t good enough.”

 

“Arthur, that’s all I have.” Merlin turns towards him, and the expression on Arthur’s face near breaks his heart. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Please, believe me, it was never my wish to hurt you. But these things…they are impossible. Surely you must see that.”

 

“As impossible as the two of us, you mean,” Arthur says, with familiar bitterness. “Yet I have never known you to be a coward before.”

 

“You have never known me before!” Merlin exclaims, throwing his hands up into the air. “Excepting for those few years when I was a child, and I was plenty cowardly then, I can assure you.”

 

“I don’t believe you.” With a sudden shifting of his weight, Arthur leans in and kisses him, setting Merlin’s head jolting back against the side of the buggy. “There—now I’ve given you the power to ruin me,” he says, and smiles ruefully. “Am I mad to trust that you won’t use it? Merlin, please—the things I remember…”

 

“Terrible things,” Merlin murmurs.

 

“Incredible things,” Arthur corrects him. “Some of them.”

 

Merlin laughs. “Name one.”

 

“Planes,” Arthur says promptly. “Escalators. Those things that spin you into the sky at fairgrounds.”

 

“Ferris wheels,” Merlin says, half choking on a laugh that turns into a sob. He glances out the window, watches the rolling hills blurring into the dusk. “This is madness, all of it.”

 

“It was real.” So hard and certain. “Or, it will be. Already there are inventions—ideas—”

 

“Enough!” Merlin looks away. “It’s all a fantasy.”

 

“But it isn’t.” Arthur’s fingers press into his, so firmly as to be almost painful. “Merlin. Why did you never tell me?”

 

Merlin is silent.

 

“Tell me you had no memory of who I was.” Arthur’s voice, already unsteady, breaks on the last word. “Tell me you didn’t come to me because you didn’t remember who we were.”

 

Merlin closes his eyes. “You know it doesn’t work like that.”

 

“God damn it, Merlin!” Arthur slams his hand against the seat, and Merlin jumps. “You let me think I was _alone_ and out of my wits—”

 

“I cannot go through it again, Arthur!” Merlin shouts, his voice harsh and loud in the confined space. “I will not stand by and watch you die again. I could not bear it.”

 

“But it hasn’t even happened yet!” Arthur’s temper spikes, then just as abruptly dies away. His tone turns coaxing, and Merlin shivers a little at the change in spite of himself. “This life—whatever we are or will be to one another—whatever is going to happen to us, none of it has happened _yet_. Perhaps this time, you will die first. Perhaps we two will live forever.”

 

“No man lives forever,” Merlin says. “It can’t be done.”

 

Arthur grips his wrists, thumbs sliding beneath the sleeves to stroke his skin. Merlin closes his eyes. “Then perhaps we should make the best of what we have.”

 

 

 

7

 

 

**1382**

 

By June, a few short months since he received the commission, Merlin has accumulated enough intimate studies of the subject to serve as the basis of a thousand paintings; and yet, the precise angle for the finished sketch continues to elude him. The drawing that is his current favourite, which features Arthur lying naked in a pool of light, his body loose-limbed and languorous after their coupling, is not one he is willing to share with the rest of the world.

 

Unclothed, Arthur’s physique is not strictly classical, yet Merlin spends more time than he ought to simply looking at him, tracing the shape of his reclining body onto scraps of canvas, populating his work with images of Arthur as he has been—will be—in times to come. Arthur himself complains about this process almost constantly, the same way he complains about anything that takes Merlin’s attention away from their time together, but Merlin is greedy for more than just Arthur’s presence in this life: he wants to scatter Arthur’s face throughout all of history, for there to be some concrete proof of his existence and the things they have seen.

 

“Merlin, stop daydreaming about flying machines and come back to bed,” Arthur demands, falling back onto the pillows with an impatient sigh. He knocks against the easel with one leg, insistent, and with a roll of his eyes Merlin sets down the lead lest he spoil the drawing. He will have to finish it later, if the light is still good; if not, then it will keep.

 

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur whines, and Merlin laughs as he walks to join him, shucking off his shirt and hose and climbing onto the bed.

 

“Hedonist,” he accuses, without rancour.

 

“Magician,” Arthur counters lazily, his lips quirking upwards in a smile. “I should have you tried as a witch, you know. A man who can tell the future.”

 

“More like get the both of us executed for crimes against nature.” He runs a hand along Arthur’s bare thigh meaningfully, but Arthur merely shifts so that his legs fall further open, pressing up into Merlin’s touch without a hint of self-consciousness. Merlin smiles in spite of himself. He would not have expected Arthur to be a sensualist, underneath all the layers of repression and self-doubt, which only went to show how Arthur could still surprise him, even after all this time.

 

“I like you when you’re happy,” he comments, dropping a kiss onto Arthur’s hipbone. “It suits you.”

 

“Most things do,” Arthur says smugly. “Now come here and entertain me properly.”

 

“If you insist.” Merlin moves up to nuzzle against his cheek, tantalising with soft nips but pulling away each time Arthur leans up to engage. At last, Arthur’s mouth compresses into a frustrated pout, and Merlin laughs at him for his impatience before licking his way inside, losing himself in the slow burn of Arthur’s lips on his.

 

“I said _properly_ , Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, his hands skimming down Merlin’s sides to grasp at his hips. “Or are you as useless to me in this life as you were in the last?”

 

“You know me, my lord,” Merlin says, bracing both hands against the headboard and grinning down at his lover in earnest. “I live to serve.”

 

 

8

 

**515**

 

“I should have known that you were royalty once,” he says, as Arthur shudders under him and gasps for breath, making decidedly _un_ -royal sounds as Merlin fucks him. “No wonder you’ve been a pompous prat in every lifetime.”

 

“You can’t talk—to me like that,” Arthur pants, and maybe there’s a hint of laughter, too. “I told you—we would—live forever.”

 

“Legends don’t count,” Merlin says primly, then swears as Arthur grabs hold of him and flips them over, straddling Merlin’s waist. “Arthur—”

 

“Some of us can count quite well,” Arthur informs him, leaning down to capture Merlin’s mouth in a heated kiss. He rolls his hips, biting into Merlin’s bottom lip, and Merlin comes like that, with Arthur pinning him down, letting out a strangled sound that would have been a shout except he has no breath left to make it one. Arthur’s mouth is close to his ear, his breath warm against Merlin’s over-sensitive skin. “And by my calculations, I believe you owe me a lifetime or two.”

 

Merlin laughs and pulls him closer, their foreheads knocking together as they briefly jockey for position. “I’ll get right on that, Your Majesty,” he says, pressing tiny, puffed-air kisses all over Arthur’s face. “Just as soon as I’m through with this one.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> NB: This is a reincarnation fic, and it does contain (shocker!) Major Character Death. However, since this is also, you know, a reincarnation fic...they get better?


End file.
